


Let us collide, you and I

by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hd_erised, Forbidden Forest, HP: EWE, Hogwarts, M/M, Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Recluse Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: Upon his return to Hogwarts for a sixteen year commemoration, Draco discovers that things are not always what they seem, especially when it comes to investigating one Harry Potter.  A story of confessions, forgiveness and second chances.





	Let us collide, you and I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoubleApple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleApple/gifts).



> The biggest of thank you’s to L, without whom, this would not be possible.  Thank you to the mods for their generosity and patience with me.  Finally, to doubleappled: I sincerely hope you enjoy this story.  It was a pleasure writing for you.  ♥

Fog blankets the grounds as Draco walks through the grass. He sighs every so often, dew drops falling from blades of brown grass, finding a new home on his shoes. The sun is slow to rise this morning -- its rays warming the limbs of bare trees, intermittent shafts of warmth cutting through the atmosphere, mouthing at the tips of Draco’s pale fingers. The closer he gets to the castle, the more his pace begins to slow. He’s uncertain if returning was the right idea. The autumn breeze that reminded him of afternoon-long Quidditch practice now houses the desperate whispers of the dead, pushing against his back, urging him closer towards the home he abandoned all those years ago. Despite his uncertainty, his mother's constant nagging made the choice rather easy.  The agreement fell from his lips, much like Harry’s name used to, in the confines of Malfoy Manor during the war, bathed in darkness while he was fighting to keep the urge to vomit at bay.

 _Harry_. 

A smirk crosses Draco’s lips. He can almost feel the spark rising from its graveyard in the pit of his stomach. His cheeks redden and he bites his lower lip, until he can nearly taste the blood that rises to the surface. They were children. His life -- that life -- felt like someone else’s. When he came back to Malfoy Manor and the Dark Lord’s sharp nails dug into his shoulder, he became a living corpse.

He inhales sharply as the ground morphs beneath him -- the echoes of his oxfords on the cobblestone entrance. Nervously, he runs his fingers through his now golden-blond hair, tugging gently on the ends. He can hear the blood curdling screams of the dead, the gasps from survivors, their faces caked in soot, as Harry came into view, lying limply in Hagrid’s arms, their fearless leader slain at the hands of a sick, impenetrable god.

Draco thinks of himself in these moments of solitude, of what a naive boy he’d been -- placing so much trust in Lucius to protect him, the empty promises of freedom and eternal glory falling from his thin, cracked lips. He wonders how, after all these years, his mother remained faithful to a man who valued a name above any other. She lives in their family cottage now, in a quiet little French town, secluded on one side by greenery, nearly unreachable unless one wants to navigate miles across a body of water. He owls her weekly, though his letters are rarely returned. The last time he visited her, when spring paid no mind to summer’s seductions, she flinched as his hand found its home on her shoulder, her breathing quick and ragged. "Mother," he’d murmured, brushing a piece of her thinning white hair behind her ear. "It’s me, Draco." She’d sighed and relaxed beneath his touch, slithering out of the strong grip of her demons. "My darling boy," she’d whispered fondly, her voice broken. "I do wish you’d come around more."       

A strand of hair fell against his cheek.  He swallowed thickly.  "I'm aware, Mother.  And I wish you'd leave this god awful place.  There are too many memories of Father for my liking,"  Draco replied, his last syllables sharp enough to cut through the cherry wood of the chair his mother was sitting in.  Narcissa sighed weakly.  "No matter your feelings of Lucius, darling, he was still your father."  She reached a trembling hand to her lips.  Draco placed his hands in the pockets of his navy trousers before he began walking about the room.  This was their usual routine.  His mother -- too weak to move, sat in silence, her eyes hollow and lips slightly pursed.

Every time Draco took her pale, bony hands in his, he wondered what would become of his mother.  As he cradled her hands, he thought of the flowers in the back garden -- would they bloom in the spring, or would the ivy begin its slow crawl up the tree trunk in the fall?  In those last moments, when her fingers grew limp, he wondered if her life had been full, if all of this had been worth it.

He stops at the castle's threshold, desperate for a quiet mind.  If he's honest with himself, he finds a strange sort of comfort in his violent memories.  The torment keeps him grounded -- his mind a badge for survival.  "They're nothing more than memories, Draco," Snape's monotonic voice buzzes in his ear.  If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Snape's hand resting on his shoulder, as he fights the urge to lean back into his billowing black robes, inhaling the deep scent of potions gone wrong that lingered on the fabric.  

Feeling strangely nostalgic at Snape’s memory, he inhales deeply before stepping forward into the castle.  The air is blanketed with warmth, dust, and the faintest scent of broom polish.  Despite the empty halls, he walks cautiously, hands buried in the pockets of his trousers.  The tap-tap-tap of his shoes vibrates underneath the cobblestone floor.  His fingers curl around a piece of fabric, and he sighs, the temptation to cast a _homenum revelio_ swept away like ashes.  

A stream of light emits from the Great Hall, its shadow dancing against the cobblestone.  The scene sends a shiver up Draco’s spine.  It feels as though he never left.  The dark wooden tables are newly polished, the window panes nearly glisten in the soft light of the room.  The roof is, once again, bewitched to resemble the night sky.  The stars are dim, and he fights the urge to trace the outlines of the dark mark thinly veiled beneath the clouds.  He removes a hand from the pocket of his trousers and clenches his fist.  His lips part and his eyes flutter closed.  "It’s not real," he murmurs, silently at first, then repeats the phrase in a sort of panicked cadence he’s become accustomed to over the last sixteen years.  

"Draco?"

His name falls from the mouth of a stranger, and clings to the back of his neck.  The air shifts around him, and if he closed his eyes, he would swear he was in his mother’s rose garden, basking in the sun’s warmth, the heady, sweet scent holding his mind captive.  As a boy, he longed to chase it, to bottle it in a flask to keep inside his trouser pocket, or as he grew older, his robes.

"Draco," the stranger repeats.  This time, there is a hint of reverence in the stranger’s tone, blanketed by uncertainty.  Draco knows better, though.  There’s nothing uncertain about the messy, dark fringe, piercing green eyes and wire-framed glasses.  The last time Draco laid eyes on Harry Potter, they were standing on opposite sides of the crumbling courtyard, their pale faces caked with ash.  Draco remembers standing there, his sweaty palm gripping the end of the wand hidden in his trouser pocket, wondering what would happen if he surrendered.  If he --

His memories are abruptly interrupted by a heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder.  He swallows and turns to meet Harry’s gaze, fully ready to reprimand him for having such nerve as to lay a finger on him, except -- the Harry that meets him was a stranger.  His trademark fringe looks as if he’s attempted to grow it out at one point or another.  His eyes, while still green, appear rather hollow underneath his poor attempt at a facade.  He also has neglected to shave for what Draco would guess to be about two weeks.  He is dressed in a three quarter length sleeve jumper the color of charcoal, which does nothing for his complexion, but wonders for his eyes.  His camel colored trousers are baggy below the knees, and his black trainers were scuffed with red mud.  

Draco narrows his eyes, giving Harry a once-over before he spoke.  "I must say, I hardly expected to see you here, Potter."  He watches as Harry straightens the slightest bit, cocking his head to one side.  

"Funny.  I could say the same of you."  

Draco smirks.  A thrill rushes through him and he feels as if he’s thirteen all over again -- living to challenge the great Harry Potter.  

"Do I detect sarcasm, Chosen One?"  His words pierce the air, but are quickly deflated from the lack of venom.  Harry, however, doesn’t notice.  Draco’s smirk thins out as he watches Harry shrink beneath him, his shoulders hunched, as if he’s curling in on himself.  

"You haven’t changed a bit, Draco."  Before Draco can respond, the doors to the Great Hall are pushed wide open and a sea of people, most likely alumnus and current students, flood into the space which was barely occupied thirty seconds earlier.  Draco blinks.  When he opens his eyes, he sees that Harry has managed to escape the room untouched.  His eyes scan Harry’s movements as he sharply turns the corner and exits the Great Hall, scurrying out of the castle.  Draco bites his lip, pushes a few stray strands of hair from his face and begins his leisurely pursuit of Harry.  

The air shifts as soon as he steps into the foyer.  The warmth he felt has turned cold, and the screams that haunt him at night gnaw at the corners of his mind, desperate for some sort of vivid memory to tear to bits before nursing it back to health once more.  The thirteen year-old inside of him, buried beneath his ribs, shackled by his sins, longs to race after Harry.  How easy it would be to follow him through the courtyard, to be unapologetically in control of his actions.   _Vengeance is sweet_. Snape’s voice echoes through his mind, each word dripping with the poison of victory.  Then he remembers.  The night in Malfoy Manor, his knees to his chest, clasping his hands together to quell his trembling fingers.  Beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face, breaking up streaks of dirt and caressing his jaw line, before falling onto the ripped black fabric of his pants, revealing a deep gash as wide as a broom handle.  His thin lips were caked with blood.  The Dark Mark pulsed against his forearm.  He had survived, but at what cost?

Moments later, when Draco finally comes back to himself, he’s shivering.  His arms are crossed and he’s standing in the foyer, fighting to keep his knees from buckling.  Catching Harry doesn’t sound so appealing anymore.  In an attempt to steady himself, he uncrosses his arms, letting them fall limply to the side.  Once his hands cease their shaking, he pushes into his trouser pocket, caressing the wrinkled parchment.  He allows himself a few deep breaths before setting off in the direction of the classrooms.  

As he walks, the soles of his shoes echo through the corridor.  The portraits shift every so often, but luckily, no one greets him scathingly.  He passes classroom after classroom -- some are completely empty, others are boarded up, some are still littered with debris.  It looks a bit like the Malfoy mausoleum -- open graves with vacancies that can never really be filled.  Not much has changed since the war.  The thought fills him with a sense of uncertainty that he hasn’t felt since living with the Dark Lord.  He shivers, shakes his head, as if to push the memory from his mind.  Sensing his proximity to the classroom, he slows his pace considerably.  After all this time, this room still has a piece of him.  It’s the only door that looks like it’s been regularly maintained.  He can smell the fresh polish, and the gold engraving lies heavy on the sign.  He sighs, pushing the door open.  

The tables are just as Snape had left them, all those years ago.  He traces the corners with his fingers, ignoring the lump forming in his throat.  He chances a look at the wall, and that’s when he sees it -- Snape’s portrait.  Adorned in sleek black robes from head to foot, his chin rests in his hand.  His face is relaxed and his mouth set in a thin line.  For the first time in Draco’s life, Snape looks just how Draco wishes he felt -- content.  Despite Snape’s peacefulness, Draco is nothing if not curious.  He runs his hands over anything he can touch, desperate to feel grounded, to feel like he belongs here again.  

Even with the absence of windows, Draco can sense nightfall -- the shift in the air, the way shadows dance on the wall, hiding parts of their bodies in the crevices and cracks.  He finds a sort of masochistic comfort in the night.  He understands the way the night’s mind works, the way it twists and turns in its sleep, longing to be free of the atmosphere’s sharp clutches, but loving the way it feels when she takes her deep breath and sinks her claws into its heart.  He chuckles to himself as he walks to the back cabinet.  Dust blankets the shelves and Draco fights the urge to sneeze.  His eyes widen as he looks upon flasks and beakers filled with all sorts of liquid -- different smells, textures, consistencies.  Each container is clearly labeled in Snape’s elegant cursive.  Somehow, despite being so close to Snape, he feels more alone than ever.  With each passing moment, regret threatens to overwhelm him as he thinks of what could have been -- had he not taken the Dark Mark.  Had he been brave like Harry, and risked everything for his freedom.  He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice the footsteps growing louder behind him.

"You can’t be in here, Draco," Neville warns, though it sounds more like an obvious statement than a reprimand.  Draco swallows and turns around slowly.  He cuts his eyes at Neville, looking him up and down, before his eyes stop to rest on the large piece of parchment tucked against his robes.  

"Longbottom.  How lovely to see you," Draco quips.  Neville opens his mouth to say something else, but Draco beats him to the punch.  

"Looks like I’m not the only one trying to fit in around here.  Using Harry’s map to find me, are you?  I must say, I’m disappointed.  There’s very few places I’d ever be in the old days."  

Neville grips the map even tighter, shrinking in on himself.  "You should go.  From the looks of things," Neville gestures to Draco’s sleeve, where half of his faded Dark Mark is visible.  "You still have a habit of breaking the rules, and turning up where you’re not wanted."  

Draco sneers at Neville before brushing past him to leave, and if the bump he landed against Neville’s shoulder was a bit too harsh, he paid no mind to it.    

Draco moves quickly through the halls, completely unseen.  The trek up the staircase is as steep and foreboding as he remembers.  By the time he reaches the top, the cold greets him like an old friend, latching onto his veins, forcing him to sit and rest.  The castle grounds look remarkably different from up here.  It reminds him of being back at Malfoy Manor -- blanketed in darkness, but a place of refuge, if one knew where to look.  He steps to the railing carefully, at times, narrowly missing the disguised holes in the flooring.  Once his hands grip the iron rod, he feels free.  From this angle, everything looks as if it’s simply waiting to be reborn.  

The dark stretch of the Black Lake is wide, and the trees cocoon the Forbidden Forest from harm.  Caught up in the scenery, Draco almost misses the figure moving in the darkness beneath him.  The jogger’s heavy breathing echoes off of the trees and travels upward.  It’s only when the forest is quiet and the movement stops that Draco can make out the silhouette.  There’s only one person insane enough to be out here, running through the forest in the middle of the night.  It seems that Harry is up to something, and Draco is going to figure out what.  Feeling strangely victorious, Draco retreats to the back wall of the Astronomy Tower and settles on the floor, legs crossed, hands in his lap.  The wrinkled parchment shifts in his pocket.

Days pass with autumn making itself more and more at home.  The air is getting cooler, and Draco grows more and more frustrated.  There’s been no sign of Harry since that night on the Astronomy Tower, and to top it all off, the Slytherin dungeons have been sealed, so Draco’s relegated to sleeping in the kitchens with the house elves, who, as it turns out, are quite chatty at the precise moment Draco’s eyes drift shut.  He’s developed a crick in his neck, hasn’t had a decent shave, and continues to be the lone Slytherin at the table for breakfast each morning.  That alone earns him enough glares and whispers for a lifetime.  

One wouldn’t know, simply by looking at him, that he was one of the top apothecaries in France.  He left all of that to come here, and it’s times like these, in his solitude, with foreign whispers latching onto the back of his neck, that he wonders why.  Each night, as darkness falls, blanketing the castle grounds, he knows why he returned.  A spoon clinking against a nearby table pulls Draco from his rather embarrassing thoughts.  He decides to have mercy on himself by disposing of his breakfast, which had gone cold, and leaves the Great Hall.  

Once in the foyer, he smooths his palms over grey trousers and ventures out into the courtyard.  He passes cracked pillars and mounds of rubble until he reaches the archway leading away from the castle.  Immediately, his mind is assaulted with images of the Dark Lord in his charcoal stained robe, prancing toward the castle, exclaiming that he had slain the great Harry Potter, once and for all.  His victorious laugh, dripping with wickedness,  will be burned in Draco’s memory until he turns to ash.    

Draco ventures away from the courtyard, going deeper into the Hogwarts grounds.  Eventually, he reaches the Black Lake.  Cautiously, he steps down the embankment, and sits in the bed of dying grass closest to the water.  There’s a faint breeze rustling the tree limbs above him, waking the current from its slumber.   

In addition to being a rather successful apothecarist, Draco is an artist.  Being so attracted to potions was never a coincidence.  Exploring the exact science of things, having total control over an outcome -- he’s been drunk on that feeling ever since he can remember.  There’s something so freeing about knowing the control he has over his art -- to create something from nothing.  He enjoys the anonymity that tags along with creating art.  To be able to share the most intimate parts of yourself in a canvas, while still being able to pull yourself out of the depths of the process and appreciate what you’ve done.  These professions have given Draco the opportunity to do something he never thought possible in the midst of the war -- the ability to start over.  

Lost in his own thoughts and the movements of pencil gliding over parchment -- creating the sharp peaks of mountains as he raises his eyes toward the sky -- he pays no mind to the rustling of grass and leaves beside him.

"You’re still here," Harry murmurs.  His voice carries on the wind, and when it brushes against Draco’s fingers, he jerks backward.  

"How observant, Potter.  The better question is why are you here?"  

Harry sighs, shifting in the grass toward Draco, their knees nearly touching. "Piss off, tosser.  I have just as much right to be here as you do." Draco reaches for the letter, but his fingers find their home brushing against Harry’s hand.  He rests it there for a moment or two before he feels it -- the burning, the scent of ash, and Harry’s face -- caked with blood.  His lips are moving, but all Draco can hear are the ear-piercing screams of people being tortured.  The scene in front of him shifts, and he sees Hermione, laying on the floor of the Manor, blood dripping from her arm.  There’s a blur of white light, followed by the image of Harry collapsing to the ground in the Forbidden Forest -- and why was his mother hovering over Harry’s body?  

Draco jerks his hand away, surrounded by darkness.  He’s trying not to panic, but he senses fear’s crippling grip, slithering up the back of his neck.  He clenches his fists, and thinks of Snape, of his mother and frolicking about in her rose garden as a child.  Then, with one final breath, he does the only thing he knows how to do, and gives in.

A minute passes, maybe two, before Draco comes back to himself.  His surroundings are just as he remembers -- the gray sky, the mountains’ pointed peaks that remind him of the Dark Lord’s fingernails, the trees, the dead blades of grass beneath him.  Everything is normal, except for --

 _Harry_.

He’s lying on his back, his eyes are closed, and a thin trail of dark blood runs down his nose, curving over his lips.  He’s paler than usual and his skin has gone cold.  Draco panics, shaking Harry’s shoulder with as much force as he can muster with trembling fingers.

"Harry!  You tosser, don’t you dare.  Not after everything you’ve been through.  Don’t leave --"  Draco ignores the lump in his throat, and places his hands over Harry’s chest, pushing his palms down into the fabric of his jumper.

He wants to call for help, but the words are held prisoner by his worry.  Harry’s still cold, and it’s been at least half a minute.  Draco shifts closer to Harry, prepared to breathe life into him, when his knee bumps something in Harry’s trouser pocket.  Draco scurries backward and without thinking, reaches to retrieve the object.  Once in sight, Draco’s mouth is agape and his hands are shaking.  He runs his fingers over the smooth wood, cataloguing the way it opens itself up every few inches to take the shape of a hollow, circular ball.  The Elder Wand.

"Merlin," Draco whispers.  He turns the wand over in his hand, biting the inside of his cheek before looking, once again, at Harry.  "Rennervate!"  He twists the wand, and though a blue light emits from the tip, it never reaches Harry, and fades to nothing.  When Harry’s eyelashes cease to flutter and his pulse fades to a soft thump, Draco scoops him from the ground and into his arms.  If there’s one person who knows how to help Harry, it’s Madam Pomfrey.      

By the time he’s settled in the hospital wing, dusk hits the spires of the castle and the shadows among the grounds begin to come alive.  Draco is restless.  He can’t stop thinking about Harry’s magic.  The moment his hand touched Harry’s, he felt a strange sense of deja-vu.  As if his memories from the Manor, and Harry’s, had collided.  Almost like they were connected.  He retrieves the sketch pad from his pocket, and begins to write notes.   _Memories of Manor, Dark Lord -- vivid scenes involving blood, distinct burning smell_.  The bed creaks next to him.  He recognizes the scent of warmth and earth, sprinkled with a hint of spice.  Quietly, Draco gathers his things, and vanishes.

A few days pass before Draco runs into Harry again, this time, in the Great Hall.  "The Chosen One rises again, eh?"  Draco asks, not looking up from his sketch pad.

"Why, after all this time, do you insist on being a prat, Draco?" Harry responds in kind, exasperation evident in his voice.  He leans in closer, and it makes Draco nervous.  "What are you working on?"

"It’s nothing," Draco murmurs, closing the front of his sketchbook with a thud.  "I should get going."  Draco stands, inhaling deeply, desperate for some sort of diversion from Harry’s scent.

"Wait," Harry says, reaching for Draco’s forearm.  Draco goes rigid.  "I appreciate you sitting with me the other night.  Madam Pomfrey -- she, uh, told me."

"Yeah well, the Wizarding World can’t afford to lose the Chosen One to a simple nosebleed, can they?" Draco replies, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"I’ll see you around, Draco," Harry murmurs, rolling his eyes.  Draco is thankful to be finished with this conversation.  He exits the Great Hall virtually unseen and begins the long trek to Snape’s office.  He’s unsure of Harry’s recent behavior, as well as his motives, but he doesn’t fancy another episode like the one a few days ago.  

The door to Snape’s office is just as clean and polished as it was the first time Draco set eyes on it several weeks prior.  The hinges creak as he turns the knob.  He shivers, casting a _Lumos_.  

"Merlin’s sake, put that light out, you moron."  Snape mumbles, his displeasure clear.

"Oh, come off it.  This is the only other place, apart from the kitchens, that I get some sense of peace,"  Draco responds, rolling his eyes.

"Still so ungrateful, aren’t we, Draco?  What a pity."

"You’ve some nerve, calling me ungrateful.  You’re the one who --"

"Enough," Snape commands.  "I presume you have a reason for disturbing me, other than wanting to relive your glory days."

"A real riot, you are.  I came to ask for your help."

"Spit it out, then."

"It’s Harry.  Something is off."

"Oh, Draco.  Not this again.  Why must you insist on embarrassing yourself?"

Draco scoffs, brushing a strand of hair from his cheek.  "It’s his magic, Severus.  It’s unstable."

Snape raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side.  "How do you know?"

"Because …" Draco hesitates, unsure of how much to reveal.  "He found me, the other afternoon, at the Black Lake.  Came to tell me what my assignment was for the commemoration project."  Draco rolls his eyes, shifting his feet.  "Our fingers collided, and when I touched him, it felt like living with the Dark Lord all over again."  Draco stops, waiting for Snape’s reaction, which never comes.  "I only saw flashes of memories -- blood, ash.  I heard piercing screams and Bellatrix’s laughter.  And he passed out shortly after.  A stream of blood escaped his nose.  I retrieved my wand, and that’s when I felt it -- the Elder Wand in his pocket."

By the time Draco has finished confessing the episode to Snape, he’s pacing.  His palms are sweaty and he’s mumbling to himself.  Silence stretches between the two of them for several minutes.  Finally, Snape’s monotonic voice emerges from his perch atop the room.  

"That’s impossible, Draco.  The Elder Wand was destroyed when the Dark Lord died."  

"You of all people should know that nothing is impossible."

"Don’t be naive, Draco.  I was under the impression that you left your boyhood idealism behind long ago."

Draco chuckles.  "This is so like you, Severus, doubting everything you cannot see with your own eyes."  

He can feel Snape’s eyes on him from across the room.  A shiver descends against his spine.  

"You ungrateful child.  What you’ve seen is incomparable to the anguish others have suffered."  His voice grows weak, dissolving against the walls of his office.

"Enough.  This is completely off the point.  I came to you to ask for help, which is humbling in itself, believe me.  Are you going to assist me or not?"

"Fine," Snape mutters through gritted teeth.  He pauses a moment before continuing.  "Why is this so important to you, Draco?  Helping Potter?"

Draco swallows, biting the inside of his cheek.  "Because … he saved my life."  He resents the way the confession escapes his mouth, so fragile that it could crumble at any moment.

"Mmmm.  Keep telling yourself that, child.  Be off with you.  I’d very much like to resume my rest."

In desperate need of rest himself, Draco leaves Snape’s office and retreats to the kitchens.  The elves, though less than pleased at his return, oblige him with bread, warm soup and pumpkin juice.  The past several days have not been kind to him, he realizes, looking at his reflection.  There’s a permanent streak on his glasses, and he’s developed a shadow underneath his eyes that seems to grow darker in hue with each passing minute.  The kitchens are warm, and the smell of his childhood food is rather comforting.  It’s times like these, in the muted hustle and bustle of Hogwarts, that he wishes things could have turned out differently.  For him, for his family, for Harry.  He’s never quite understood their connection, but he knows the ties between them run so deep that without them, he’d likely be a stranger to himself.  The thought is terrifying, but there’s a strange sense of comfort when he thinks of Harry, despite their complicated past.  He’d be willing to wager that, out of everyone in his life, save for his mother, Harry knows him best.  His eyes grow heavy with the thought, so he pushes his plate from the table, and lays his head down to rest.  Night falls over the castle, blanketing him in darkness.

When Draco wakes, the only light emitting from the kitchen is a lone candle or two.  The crick in his neck has grown more stiff, though his arms and legs feel like jelly.  The room is quiet and he greatly appreciates it.  The ache behind his eyes is nearly enough to drive him mad.  He pushes himself upward and winces at the clink that reverberates throughout the space.  He looks to his left.  Funny, the elves must have left him some sort of dessert.  Upon closer inspection, he realizes that it is a treacle tart.  The pastry seems so familiar, and the scent is like something he’s smelled hundreds of times before -- burnt sugar and raspberries, rich, buttery crust.  He breaks off a piece with his finger, placing it on his tongue.  The minute he begins to chew, the flavor explodes in his mouth, and he’s certain.  It used to be Harry’s favorite dessert.  Each bite fills him with warmth, and it’s exactly what he needed.  He finishes the tart, takes a swig of now room temperature pumpkin juice, and heads back in the direction of Snape’s office.

He turns the corner rather abruptly, his mind racing and full of ideas, that he doesn’t even notice the light shining from underneath the doorway.  He barges in and stops in his tracks.  Harry Potter stands in front of him, two vials of potion in hand.  The air in the room is stiff.  Draco looks him up and down.  His shoelaces are tied haphazardly, his trousers wrinkled and baggy, shirt hanging about his neck at a weird angle.  He watches as Harry doesn’t bother to lift his gaze, but adjusts his glasses to sit properly against the bridge of his nose.

"Been raiding Snape’s potions cabinet, have you?" Draco accuses.

"What of it, Draco?  Are you sore because there’s none left for you?"  Harry quips, clenching his free hand.

"You’ve got nerve, Harry.  Always have.  But you know nothing when it comes to me."

"Keep telling yourself that, Draco.  Now piss off, will you?"

"Why should I?  So you can have one of your weird rendezvous out in the Forbidden Forest yet again?  So you can avoid speaking to anyone, and walk around here like a ghost?  It’s absurd, Harry, honestly."

"That’s what you think?" Harry asks, stepping closer to Draco, his chin held high.

Draco chuckles.

"Still believing everything dear old daddy tells you, yeah?"

Draco inhales, and steps to Harry until they’re nearly nose-to-nose.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!  Wouldn’t be here if I did, would I?"

"Seems like I’m not the only one walking around here like a ghost."

Draco steadies himself and pushes Harry with as much force as he can muster.  He watches as Harry stumbles backward, catching himself on the corner of the table.  Finally.  He’s satisfied.

A moment passes between them, and suddenly the door to Snape’s office slams shut, the lock clicking into place.  The room begins to vibrate and their ears are assaulted with the sound of glass cracking and shattering all around them.  Snape wakes, and he’s yelling some sort of order at Draco, but in vain.  Potions and books tumble from the wooden shelves surrounding them, and the air has grown cold.  Draco drops to the ground, crawling underneath a wooden worktable, his hands clasped over his ears.  When he peeks out from beneath the tabletop, he sees Harry -- jaw clenched, a trail of blood falling from his nose, curving over his lips and marking his neck.  His eyes are open, but the green hue has dulled considerably.  Another minute passes with Draco mentally cataloguing every detail of this episode before the room fades to black, and Harry hits the floor with a thud.

"Mmmph," Harry mumbles, bringing a hand to his forehead.  "Why are you still here?"

"Christ sakes, Harry.  You pass out, everything around us is collapsing like the Battle of Hogwarts all over again, and all you're worried about is why I'm still here?"  Draco says, infuriated.

"You're a real riot, Draco.  We both know that the last thing I said to you was an insult.  You've never been very good at deflecting."  Harry replies, rolling his eyes.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go eat supper before it gets cold."

Draco sighs.  "Go ahead.  I'll wait."

"Suit yourself."  Harry dusts off his trousers and rises from the floor.  He stretches, wipes the blood from his nose with one hand, adjusting his glasses with the other.   The moment he touches the doorknob, he jumps back, wincing, nursing his palm.  He turns to Draco.  "What the bloody hell did you do to get us trapped in here like this?"

"You're infuriating, do you realize that?  Everything was perfectly fine until you came barrelling in here, looking to sneak some more of Snape's potions to --"

"To what, Draco?"

"Nevermind.  The point is, you shouldn't have been snooping!  Much less raiding a dead wizard's potions cabinet!  Lost your sense of dignity in the war as well, did you?"

Harry inhales through clenched teeth, reaching Draco in three strides.  "How dare you.  You know nothing about me!  All these years, you've wanted to belong.  It's quite sad, that even still, you're not wanted."

Draco flinches, unable to stop the flicker of hurt from crossing his face. Then he straightens, and pushes himself nearly flush against Harry's body. "Is that so?"  

Draco moves in closer until his lips are pressed against Harry's ear.  " _Petrificus Totalus_ ," he whispers.  Harry looks stunned, unable to keep himself from falling to the floor once more.  "I figured it out, you know."  Draco hovers over Harry's body, tangling himself in Harry's limbs before continuing.  "Your magic is unstable, threaded with darkness.  It explains your episodes, your increased irritability --"

From the look on Harry's face, it's evident that he's desperate to strike back at Draco with a scathing insult, or better yet, give him a solid punch in the jaw.  "I know you want to fight, Harry, but don't.  Even though you're insufferable, you did save my life all those years ago, so consider this my thank you."  With one final sigh, Draco lifts the spell and Harry pushes himself from the floor.  He wobbles at first, bringing a hand to his forehead.  He opens his mouth to speak, but finds that the words have dissolved on his tongue.

"You prat!" Harry says, "Why do you want to help me?"

"I already told you.  Weren't you listening?"

"I could hear you fine, believe me.  Your haughty voice ringing in my ears.  I caught every word,"  Harry challenges.

Draco rolls his eyes, rising from the floor, rolling his wand about in his palm.  " _Alohamora_!" he commands.  

"Honestly, Draco.  Did you learn nothing from your time with the Dark Lord?  A simple spell like that is not going to work.  I must say," Harry continues, imitating Snape's voice, "I'm especially disappointed."

"Think you're funny, do you?  You get us out of here, then, Chosen One,"  Draco spits, though it comes out less vicious than he intended.

" _Bombarda_!" Harry shouts.  The door shakes, but remains locked.

"Guess Dumbledore's golden boy isn't so talented after all."  Draco chuckles, rather pleased with himself, resting against the edge of the table.

"I'll figure it out."

"I'm right here, you know."

Harry rolls his eyes.  "Like I would ever ask for help from you."

"You did once, remember?"

Harry looks down at his feet, offering a subtle nod in response.  

"Well then, I don't know about you, but I'd like to get out of here before I shrivel up and die."

Harry walks toward Draco, placing a hand on the edge of the table, opposite of where Draco's hip lay.  Draco's breath hitches, and a lump forms in his throat.  The tips of his fingers are tingling.

"Okay," Harry whispers.  He's so close to Draco that if he took one more step and leaned forward, their foreheads would touch.

Harry's sudden agreeable manner unnerves Draco a bit, but he recovers quickly, side-stepping Harry's body, advancing to the other side of the room.

Draco turns back, hand on his hip.  "Why the sudden change?"

Harry sighs, shifts his weight.  "I'm so tired of fighting ..." he confesses, quietly.

"It is rather exhausting.  I fought with myself for years -- I still do from time to time."

"How do you cope?" Harry asks, and Draco notices the earnestness in his voice.  It makes him ache for something he lost long ago.

"According to my mother," Draco says with a chuckle.  "I deflect.  I bury myself in my work and try not to think of the past, or the future.  I focus on the now as much as I can.  Though, I must say, being here again ..." Draco trails off, raising his eyes to meet Harry's.

"Nothing like this place to bring everyone together,"  Harry mumbles, hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet.

"Such optimism.  And people say you're a Gryffindor,"  Draco teases.

"The sorting hat thought differently."

"Ah, I remember.  I've been meaning to ask ..." Draco pauses for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes.  "Where exactly is Professor McGonagall?  The letter I received, or rather, that my mother received, came from her."

Harry pushes his glasses up against the bridge of his nose.  "Funny story, actually.  McGonagall has been away from Hogwarts for a while now.  Neville was appointed to be her replacement as Headmaster."

Draco eyes Harry curiously, motioning for him to continue.  "Tell me, Harry.  What did you do?"

"I ... I sent the letters out to everyone, months ago."  Harry confesses, covering his face with his palm.   

"My mother had to have known.  She was convinced that it would help me "loosen my grip on the past" and move forward.  I presume," Draco continues, "that she knew you would be here, which is why she so earnestly sent me."

Draco moves to rest against the wall, slowly slithering down the flagstone until he reaches the wooden floor.  He's sitting knees-to-chest, with his face in his hands.  The only sound in the room is Harry's breathing.  Moments pass before Draco speaks again.  "After all this time, my mother is still so intent on me making amends with you.  Every single time I visit her."  He can sense Harry stepping toward him, and as much as he wants to be strong, he knows he's going to lose this battle.  He never had a chance.  He never does, when it comes to Harry.

"But you're smart enough to know that you can leave at any time."  Harry says.

Draco chuckles.  "Yes, of course.  Any time except for right now, because as the universe would have it, I'm stuck here.  With you."

"Oh, stop.  It could be worse.  You could be stuck here with Hermione.  Or better yet, Ron."

Draco throws his hands up.  "All right, all right.  You've made your point.  How are the members of your fanclub, anyway?"

"First of all, I don't have a fanclub.  Second of all, they're quite fine.  Expecting their second child in the spring.  Hermione is always busy with her work at the DMLE, fighting for justice and equality, as only she can.  Ron is working as an Auror.  He complains about it constantly, but I think he secretly enjoys it.  Being the one to save the day.  I'm more than happy to relinquish that title, believe me."

Draco nods.  "And you?"

"There's nothing to tell," Harry responds, curtly.  "I'm sure you've kept busy."

"I'm not letting you off that easy, Potter,"  Draco warns, shaking a finger at him.  For the first time since Draco's been here, he sees Harry smile.  He knows what he must do.

They sit across from each other for hours, occasionally rising to stretch, or walk about the room.  Draco tells Harry of his successful apothecary shop in France, and of his art studio, where he paints in his spare time.  He describes his work the way Harry used to describe flying -- with a sense of reverence and pride.

"Why did you come back?"  Harry asks.  He bites his lip before threading his hands together and looks at Draco expectantly.

"Because ..." Draco drifts off.  The room turns stuffy, and it makes Draco nervous.  He swallows, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

"Come on, Draco.  We're stuck in here indefinitely.  It's not like school.  We aren't enemies anymore."

"I figured.  Especially when you didn't draw your wand and try to hex me at first sight."

Harry rolls his eyes.  "We were dumb kids, back then," he replies.  Draco can sense the unspoken apology in between his words.

"Speak for yourself," Draco says, smirking.  "I had to be smart, you know.  Survive or ... die."  He shivers as the word tumbles from his lips.  His tone is far too similar to the Dark Lord's for his liking.

"You were, Draco.  You've always been smart and extremely calculating.  You had to deal with the effects of the Dark Lord's reign.  And you came out alive."

"Yes, but, there's a difference between being alive and living, Harry.  You of all people should know that."  Draco's words echo off of the walls.  Harry nods, as if being lulled to sleep by their timbre.

"Enough of this heart to heart nonsense,"  Draco says.  "I'm going to brew you a proper sleeping potion, so your rather odd -- albeit entertaining -- habits cease."

"W-What?" Harry stammers, his voice thick with sleep.

"Hush now.  Sit still and don't touch anything,"  Draco commands.  He retreats to the back of the room, entering Snape's supply cabinet, wand in hand and one leg on either side of the threshold.  "Accio mortar." The stone bowl flies into Draco's hand, and after a few moments of searching, he finds the rest of the sleeping draught ingredients.  He walks back over to the work table, placing the wooden stool to the side.  He's always found it more comfortable to press himself flush against the table while brewing, as it assists with precision.  He's so focused that he nearly misses Harry's mumbling.

"After I left," Harry begins, "I wanted so desperately to become an Auror.  I was still immersed in that state of survival.  I craved danger.  Naturally, because of my many years of experience, I excelled.  Ron and I were together again, and I thought all would be well.  Until it wasn't.  Years later, I grew tired -- of everything and nothing simultaneously.  The only thing I craved was isolation."

"Mmm," Draco responds, his eyes trained on the mortar, the scent of lavender coating his fingers.

"So, I pried myself away from the public's greedy hands, from Ron's drunken nights at the pub, and Hermione's constant nagging.  I ran.  As far away from everyone and everything as I could, until I could focus on nothing but the sound of my own breathing.  However, that in itself started to become a nuisance after a while.  I lived in Grimmauld Place for a while, until the memories threatened to swallow me whole.  Eventually, I built myself a small cottage in the Forbidden Forest."

"That explains it," Draco whispers to himself.

"What did you say?" Harry asks.

"Nothing.  Keep talking.  Why build there?  Why not go somewhere else?"

"Because -- despite everything, this will always be my home.  I can't live in the Wizarding World without people speculating about my every move.  But here ... I'm truly alone."

"You've found comfort in loneliness, haven't you?"

"Yes.  And you have as well."

"Possibly," Draco murmurs, exchanging the mortar for a cauldron, and grabbing the wooden spoon hanging off of it.  "Come here, Harry."

Harry brushes his dark fringe from his forehead.  He rises slowly, cautious of complying with Draco's request.  

Draco looks at Harry and smirks.  "Stop being so uptight.  I'm not going to hex you.  I just want to test this potion.  Come on."

Harry shuffles over to the worktable, until he and Draco are side-by-side.  Draco's breath hitches, but he continues to stir the ingredients.  Harry peeks over the lip of the cauldron, marveling at the deep plum color.  "It's the lavender that adds such a depth of color.  Quite the delicate plant, that," Draco murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away from the cauldron.  

"Draco," Harry whispers, placing his hands on the table.

"Hmm?"  Draco asks.  He ceases his stirring and stares straight at Harry.  He looks exactly the same -- messy fringe, deep green eyes, his clothing hanging about him haphazardly -- except, he doesn't.  There's melancholy etched in his pupils, his fingers are caked with dirt, and he has the inability (or so it seems) to stand up straight.  The Harry he envied as a child has vanished.  This person staring back at him is the Harry who experienced loss after loss, who survived horrific events.  This Harry is simply living.

"Do you think, that in some other time, in another universe, where you weren't you and I wasn't me, that we could have been ..."  Harry pauses, and Draco feels his chest tighten.  "... friends?"

Draco exhales, chuckling.  He clutches his chest, dramatically.  "Why, I never thought I'd see the day!  The great Harry Potter asking lowly old me, to be his friend.  I think I may faint!"

Harry offers a slight smile, shoving Draco playfully.  "You're such a tosser.  We're not twelve anymore."

Draco sighs, looking down at the worktable.  "I never said we were."  Draco shifts closer to Harry, until they’re side-by-side, pressed against each other.  Draco is certain that if he even so much as breathes too deeply, this fragile moment will shatter in front of him like glass.  His trembling fingers brush Harry’s, a jolt of electricity flows through him.  It’s warm and familiar, and Draco craves it.  He closes his eyes, focusing on the sound of Harry’s breathing.  The quiet cadence is enough to put him to sleep.  Draco’s thoughts are interrupted by the classroom door, slowly creaking open.  

The moment the door opens, Draco tenses.  Harry is still beside him, avoiding his gaze.  "Harry," Draco whispers, "please --"  

Harry's eyes flit between his shoes and the open door.  He swallows.  "I'm sorry.  I-I can't."  Harry says, softly.  Draco closes his eyes, and when he opens them once more, Harry has vanished.

Frustrated, Draco retreats to the kitchens.  When he steps inside, his senses are flooded with the smell of fresh bread, burning ember and treacle tart.  He sighs.  Ever since he began following Harry round, nearly everything reminds him of the specky git.  Except, now, he's less specky, more handsome and not so much of a git.  

The smell of food wafting through the kitchens cuts through Draco's thoughts.  He hasn't eaten since this morning, and he's positive he could devour anything he sets his eyes on.  "Will Mr. Draco be wanting any food this evening?"  Gilly asks.  Her cream-colored rag has a tiny hole at the seam, but her eyes are warm and earnest.  "Indeed.  I'll take the lot."  Draco responds.  After nearly wiping out their ready-made food supply, Draco is satisfied.  He's certain that he hasn't eaten as much since Christmas hols as a boy.  

He retreats to the Astronomy tower from the kitchens, in desperate need of fresh air and a quiet, familiar place to think.  As he ascends the staircase, he thinks of Harry.  Why would he be so reluctant to stabilize his magic?  If he only allowed Draco to try, there may be a possibility for him to have a somewhat normal life.  Normal.  The word seems foreign echoing in Draco's mind.  The world hasn't been normal for the two of them since they were young boys, and maybe not even then.  He reaches the top of the stairs, mind reeling with questions that Harry has refused to answer.  In some ways, he and Snape are incredibly similar.  That notion is comforting to Draco, despite being rather unnerving.  He never likes to escape too far inside his own mind, for there are some confessions best kept to himself.  

He steps forward, settling against the wall.  The wind whips in the distance, making him long for a warm coat, or a cup of tea.  He retrieves his notebook from the pocket of his trousers, and flips it open to his last page of notes.  As he stares at the pages of scribble, he thinks of Harry's symptoms and the ways in which they're lessened or heightened.  When he's with Draco, his magic seems most unstable, as if it has lost its ability to feed off of the magic of others.   The longer he ruminates, the more he begins to notice a change in the air -- the wind has ceased, and the chill that surrounded him has turned into warmth.  He inhales, and suddenly, his senses are assaulted with the smell of blood and ash.  His body aches, and when he chances a look at the sky, its ink-filled hue threatens to swallow him whole.  He breathes deeply, clutching his left forearm, where the outline of the dark mark remains.  His mind is clouded with memories of the battle and screams of the fallen echo in his ears.  He falls backward, slumped against the stone wall.  The world fades to black.

Draco wakes to the sound of his own screaming, his golden blond fringe soaked with sweat.  His arm stings -- the skin feels as if it's being peeled off, strips at a time.  He blinks, trying to orient himself with his surroundings, before placing a hand on his forearm once more.  A moment passes before he feels it -- the serpent's black tail, swishing from left to right, to the cadence of his own heartbeat.  "No," he croaks.  "No, no, no, please --"  He digs his fingernails into the mark, only to carve temporary half moons into his skin before they fade into the skull's cheeks.  When he looks at the mark again, the snake hisses, a sinister look in its beady eyes -- as though it hungers for revenge after all these years.  Panicked, Draco pulls down his sleeve.  He flips through the pages of his notebook quicker than he used to catch the Snitch.  When he finds nothing in the pages except for Harry's symptoms, and possible remedies, he throws it across the room.  It hits the floor with a thud.  Frustrated and terrified, Draco brings his knees to his chest, burying his head against the fabric of his trousers.  When he closes his eyes, all he sees are images of the Dark Lord, wand in hand, pointed at its victim's chest, _Avada Kedavra_ falling from his lips with vengeance, accompanied by a sinister smile.  He shakes his head, willing the images away, though the moment he stands, he begins to retch.  After a moment or two, he stumbles forward until his hips are pressed against the iron railing.  He takes a few deep breaths, focusing on the expanse of darkness blanketing the trees before he spots it off in the distance -- Harry’s cottage.  Despite being unsettled, Draco closes his eyes and Apparates.

Draco lands in front of Harry’s cottage with a muted thud.  He stalks forward and bangs on the wooden door with so much force that it shakes.  The door opens, and there’s Harry, messy fringe and all, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and fear.  "What are you doing here, Draco?"  Harry asks.  

Draco huffs, revealing his forearm, a trail of blood dripping from the serpent’s mouth.  He stumbles inside, gripping the arm of the wooden chair by the fireplace.  Harry’s green eyes are the last thing he sees before the world goes black once more.

Dawn is breaking through the windowpanes of Harry’s cottage as Draco awakens.  His back is sore, and his torso is covered with a velvet throw.  He brings a hand to his forehead, groaning.  His mouth is dry and he's bathed in a cold sweat.  His eyes dart from side to side, taking inventory of the room.  The fire beside him has burned to embers and Harry is nowhere to be found.  Draco wouldn't dare call for him -- last night was embarrassing enough.  He shifts beneath the blanket and decides to sit up.  At first, the room feels as if it has been tilted on its axis, but after Draco blinks a few times, things become more clear.  He pulls the velvet throw from his body, wincing when he gets a proper look at his arm.  The trail of blood has dried up, and though he can't feel it pulsing anymore, the serpent's tail maintains its subtle sway back and forth.  He traces the Dark Mark with his fingers, going still as the door to the cottage creaks open.

"You're up early," Harry says, holding a pail in his hand.  "I snuck into the kitchens and asked Gilly what you liked to eat.  I haven't got much to drink except tea and pumpkin juice."

A look of surprise crosses Draco's face.  "How long have I been out?  And how did you stop the bleeding?"

"Eat first.  Then we'll talk."  Harry responds.

"First of all," Draco says, "I don't take orders from you.  Secondly, I'm not eating anything you put in front of me."

"What?"  Harry asks, in a mock-tone of surprise.  "Don't you trust me?  If I wanted to poison you, I would've bloody well done it in sixth year."             

"You don't do what I advise.  I've told you, Harry.  We have to fix this,"  Draco replies.  He can see Harry's fuse growing shorter in his eyes.  The pail falls to the floor with a clang.

"And you think I don't know that?!" Harry yells.  "I'm broken, all right?!  If I knew how to fix this, I would have by now.  I'm not that bloody thick, Draco."  

Draco rests a hand on the arm of the chair beside him and moves to stand.  He winces, steadies himself, and takes a step toward Harry.  "I know you aren't.  Why won't you let me help you?"  

"Why do you really want to help me?  And don't you dare give me that ' _I-owe-you-because-you-saved-my-life_ ' excuse.  I know there's more.  There always is when it comes to you,"  Harry asks.

Draco's hands begin to shake.  He can feel the lump forming in his throat.  Harry's got him now, and there's nothing to do but tell the truth.  "Is it so hard for you to believe that after all this time, I actually care about you?"

"Prove it,"  Harry challenges.  

Draco hobbles closer to Harry, until they’re standing less than an inch apart.  "Give me your hands," Draco says.  He watches as Harry raises his eyebrows skeptically, nevertheless complying with his request.  "Since you refuse to believe the things I say, you’ve left me with no alternative.  Look inside my mind, Harry."

"Legilimens," Harry whispers.  Draco closes his eyes.

It’s quite the odd sensation, making room for another person inside your mind.  He clenches his fists in an attempt to focus the tension so that his mind can relax.  Everything changes the moment Harry is inside of his mind.  It feels like waking for the first time after a long night’s rest -- when his body is weightless and his mind free.  Every sharp corner and dark alleyway inside is illuminated and filled with warmth.  The ghosts vanish in a thin cloud of mist, and all that remains are empty caverns, waiting to be filled with light, and new memories.  When Harry is around, Draco is reminded of his childhood, running through his mother’s rose garden, being relentlessly pursued by Snape, craving the safety of his mother’s arms, laughing all the while.  Harry feels like a small piece of home, a thread of goodness that he can hold onto -- one that is completely indestructible, no matter how tightly he grasps it.  He feels Harry jumping from place to place, unscrambling the memories that make Draco who he is.  Draco shivers as Harry arrives to the more recent parts of his mind, though there’s no use denying things now.  He’s far too old to keep running.  Moments pass, and he notices that Harry has begun to linger inside particular memories.  Exhaustion begins to creep into Draco’s veins.  He can feel himself growing warmer.  His eyes flutter a moment more before everything fades to black.     

When Draco wakes, dusk is seducing the trees.  The sound of crackling fire echoes off of the walls.  He looks at Harry.  His eyes are closed, with his fringe parted slightly to one side.  Draco swallows, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest.  He looks so much like his younger self that it makes Draco ache.  The Dark Lord seduced them into relinquishing their innocence with promises of achieving whatever they desired.  He leans forward, pressing his lips against Harry's forehead.  Slithering out of the blanket, Draco grabs his pile of clothing, dressing quickly.  He ties the last loop of his shoe, grabs the Elder Wand from Harry's trouser pocket and closes the door quietly behind him.  

Crisp air greets him the moment he steps into the forest.  He shivers, turning the Elder Wand over in his palm.  Almost immediately, his hands are warm.  The further he gets from Harry, the more the Elder Wand seems to react, pulsing with electricity.  The walk to the castle is farther than usual, so Draco takes advantage of the opportunity.  He stops every so often, pointing the wand towards empty fields, whispering as many simple spells as he can remember.  The more spells he casts, the stronger the wand seems to get.  

When he finally reaches the castle and walks across the broken courtyard, he feels like he's eleven in Ollivander's all over again.  His mother's wand lay flat in the back pocket of his trousers.  It served him well over the years, but he longed for the feeling of his old wand -- the fit, the way he could manipulate it, the way it saved his life -- time and time again.  Strangely enough, this wand feels eerily similar in his hand.  All at once, his hands begin to tremble and he feels sick to his stomach.  He knows he can't turn back now -- the pull of the castle is too strong, just as it was all those years ago, the night the Dark Lord killed Harry.  

Draco inhales and begins his trek inside. The library was one of the only places in the castle he considered to be sacred.  He could find it with his eyes closed.  The moment he walked through those doors nearly every day, he wasn't Draco Malfoy -- he was the famous wizard or apothecarist he read about in the pages of parchment bound by leather.  In the spaces between the words he devoured, he could taste the freedom he longed for silently in his bed each night.  He pushes the door open, and is greeted by a steady stream of dust.  He steps over the threshold and gasps.  Shelves upon shelves of books are barely upright, sections of shelves lie broken on the floor.  Books are tattered and torn, their covers thrown haphazardly across the room.  Ash coats the floor and cobwebs hang from the corners.  The strong scent of decay surrounds him.  "Reparo!" he commands, the Elder Wand firmly in his grip.  A stream of green light emits from the wand, so bright it nearly blinds Draco.  He can feel the wand dancing with his magic, guiding it from side to side, both strands tangled together.  There’s something incredibly alluring and familiar about the way the wand fits him.  It reminds him of Harry.  Suddenly, a bright blue light shoots forth -- blending seamlessly with the green.  The wand begins to resist Draco’s grip, but surrenders just as quickly.  When Draco looks up, he notices that the green has disappeared completely.  The blue light explodes against the ceiling, reflecting in his eyes.  Draco is mesmerized, and for a moment, everything is still.  As the last of the blue embers dissolve, the air in the room grows cold.  Draco shivers.  Something deep inside of him begins to stir.  He looks down at his arm, and the serpent’s teeth are exposed.  Its tail swishes from left to right before it hisses at Draco.  His skin turns pale, and beads of sweat form on his neck.  His eyes go wide and he turns from the room, sprinting all the way out of the castle.  By the time he reaches the entrance, his arm is completely numb and he’s gasping for air.  He has to get back to Harry.  

Draco stumbles through the courtyard and down the hill, thinking of Harry all the while to keep from crying out in agony.  He knows if he stops, he’ll pass out.  He’s been through worse than this, but this force is stronger than anything he’s ever felt -- this magic rivals that of the Dark Lord.  He wonders if Harry senses it, if he can feel it moving, pulsing beneath his skin.  Draco stumbles to the cottage, blood dripping from the serpent’s mouth once more.  He pushes his way inside, and the look on Harry’s face is enough to break him all over again.

"Draco …" Harry says, "Where were you?  And why have you got my wand?"

Draco’s breath is coming in short bursts.  He grabs onto the arm of the wooden chair to keep himself upright.  "You’ve still got dark magic inside of you, and I think I’ve figured out how to remedy it."

"Are you mad?!"  Harry exclaims.

"Aren’t we all, by now?  Let me help you.  Say yes.  And then I’ll go,"  Draco replies.

"You don’t have to go, Draco.  It’s just -- I haven’t used the wand since that night.  I wanted to be rid of it."

"... Until you didn’t anymore."

Harry nods.  He looks so tired and afraid.  Almost as if he relinquishes the wand, he’ll die all over again.

"Don’t you want more than this?"  Draco asks, earnestly.

"Who doesn’t?  But it’s not in the cards for me,"  Harry says, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper.

"Harry," Draco begins, placing a hand on his forearm.  His jaw is clenched as a steady hissing sound tumbles from Harry’s mouth.  Draco watches as the stream of blood ceases, drying up.  He gives Harry a half-smile, though his eyes are melancholy.

"If helping me is so important to you, I’ll allow it."  Harry says, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Right then.  Come with me."  Draco moves to stand beside Harry, and their fingertips brush together.

Evening has fallen upon the castle with the trees cocooned in darkness.  The sky resembles the color of the bruises Draco adorned on his cheeks all those years ago.  If he presses his fingers deep into the skin, he can feel the residual sting.  Once Draco is certain they won’t be discovered, he stops walking and turns to Harry.  "Give me your hands."  

Their hands touch and Draco’s breath hitches.  There’s something so intimate about holding someone’s hand.  They’re trusting you to lead, to guide, to be their companion, whatever comes their way.  Harry’s hands are calloused, and slightly larger than Draco’s.  Somehow, though, the fit is perfect.  "Okay," Draco whispers, afraid that if he says the wrong thing, this moment will shatter into a million pieces.  "I want you to focus on your magic.  Let it flow through you, uninhibited.  I want to see what you see.  Do you trust me?"  

Harry nods, relaxing his shoulders.  "I’m ready."

"Legilimens," Draco whispers.  Instantly, he’s speeding through Harry’s mind, and his senses are assaulted with image after image -- Harry screaming at Cedric, his eyes full of terror, blood dripping down the side of his face.  Harry, standing idly by, watching Nagini attack Arthur Weasley as he moans in pain, attempting to shield himself from the snake’s vicious bites.  Harry, taken by surprise, as Sirius floats away from him -- his eyes a dull gray, lips slightly pursed.  These images are not only at the forefront of Harry’s mind, but they appear to be on a loop.  Draco frowns.  "Why do you insist on torturing yourself?" Draco asks, freeing himself from the spell.

"All of this happened because of me, Draco."

Draco looks at Harry quizzically.  "Wait, so you’re telling me that secretly, you’re a mass murderer with no regard for human life, only a thirst for power?"

Harry rolls his eyes.  "Piss off.  You know what I mean.  The prophecy.  I am the Boy-Who-Lived for a reason."

"Oh, enough with the prophecy.  You prevailed, Harry.  Why can’t you be content with that?"

"BECAUSE!"  Harry yells, pulling his hands free of Draco’s.  "All I ever wanted was a normal life.  Even after being at Hogwarts.  And I thought that if I defeated the Dark Lord, all of this would be over, okay?!"

Draco looks at Harry.  "In an ideal world, yes.  But our lives have never been normal.  They weren’t meant to be.  If normalcy is what you so desperately seek, you’ll come up short every time.  But you’re more than the Boy-Who-Lived.  You’re not a commodity.  You’re the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever known.  I wanted to be you, Harry.  And then I went from that to simply wanting you, without knowing how to handle it.  You have to learn how to see the good in yourself.  Because from where I’m standing, that’s all you have."

"That night," Harry begins, pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose and looking at Draco.  "Why didn’t you give me up to the Dark Lord?"

Draco grabs a fistful of Harry’s jumper.  "The truth?  I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it.  I was never going to let you die, Harry."  Before he can talk himself out of it, Draco leans forward and presses his lips to Harry’s.  He tastes like herbal tea and earth.  A moment passes before he feels Harry respond with earnest.  When Draco closes his eyes, he sees Harry’s happiest memories -- the journey to Hogwarts, playing in his first Quidditch match, the exact moment he conjured his Patronus, spending Christmas with the Weasleys, standing in the center of a circle surrounded by loved ones.   

Though he’s the first to pull away, Draco never breaks eye contact with Harry.  He’s looking at him like someone who has had a revelation.  "I told you, Harry.  There’s good inside of you.  You have to be willing to fight for it.  Can you do that?"

Harry nods, brushing Draco’s cheek with his fingertips.  For the first time since that night in the kitchens, Draco allows himself to melt into Harry’s touch.  "There’s a correlation between your thoughts and the symptoms I experience.  Our magic is connected.  I’m not certain it can ever be fully restored for either of us, but the effects can be managed.  Together, we can figure this out."

Stars illuminate their journey back to the castle as they walk, hand in hand.  When they step through the threshold and into the Great Hall, the smell of fresh bread, pumpkin juice and treacle tart fills the air.  "Gilly," Draco murmurs under his breath, a smile forming on his lips.  "It must be nice to have a potions master by your side, wouldn’t you agree?"

Harry laughs.  "Do I have a choice?"

"Not really," Draco responds.  "You’re stuck with me until the end, Potter."

"I suppose there are worse alternatives." 

Draco rests a hand on Harry’s thigh, studying the way the candlelight flickers against each windowpane.

"Indeed."  Draco says, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](https://hd-erised.livejournal.com/91665.html). ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised@livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 8th.


End file.
